She paused in her flight. She stood in the center of the room and glared at me. Her voice was low now, and hoarse.
“He thought I was dying,” she said. “The fool. The vulture! I was a little poorly, yes—quite ill, in fact—and that fool tried to make everyone believe—it’s preposterous! Do you hear?”
She seemed to be waiting for a reply. I merely stared, fascinated and horrified at the same time.
“He was in love with me,” she continued. “Everyone was then. Such a sniveling little man, so depressing with his bouquet of flowers, his mournful eyes. I scorned him, of course. And this is his revenge, trying to frighten me. I’ve got more life in me now than he and all his kind will ever have!”
She paused for breath and then seemed to lapse like a mechanical toy that has suddenly run down. She lifted her hand to the side of her face and laid her fingers on her cheek. For a moment, I thought she was going to cry. All the vivacity had gone out of her eyes and they stared at me flatly, as though they could not see.
“You’re tired,” I said. “I will take you to your room.”
To my surprise, she did not protest. She came with me meekly when I took her arm. The house was very silent, the silence emphasized after her noisy tirade. We walked up the stairs, Corinne moving with the halting, creaking steps of a very old person. I felt she would crumple up and fall apart at any moment. The stairwell was dim, strewn with long shadows. I could hear the clock ticking monotonously in the hall below. As we stepped onto the landing, Agatha Crandall opened the door of her bedroom.
She peered out at us and then stepped into the doorway, a smile on her lips—a curious smile. I could smell the fumes of alcohol, but Agatha Crandall seemed to be sober. Her face was flushed pink, and her eyes sparkled with malice.
“I saw the doctor come,” she said in a girlish voice. “He stayed for quite a long time. Did you see him, Corinne?”
“I spoke to the doctor,” I said sharply.
“Oh?”
“Corinne did not want to see him.”
“Don’t you think that odd?” Agatha Crandall said. “Really, Corinne, you should have seen him. Rather, you should have let him see you. Why didn’t you, dear? Were you afraid? Didn’t you want the doctor to take a good look at you?”
She began to laugh quietly. Her laughter followed us as we walked slowly down the hall to Corinne’s room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT RAINED the next day, and the next. The skies turned leaden and gray, and the rain came continuously. It did not fall heavily, just constantly, pattering on the roofs, splashing on the terrace, wet and nasty. The gardens were a sodden mass, all black and gray and muddy brown. The wind tore at the shrubbery, stripping away leaves that pasted themselves on the wet pavement. Lyon House seemed to be isolated from the rest of the world, and it was a grim, depressing place. The gray skies seemed to have cloaked everything below, draining away all color, and the house was bleak and chilly.
Corinne had stayed closed up in her room ever since the doctor’s call, even having her meals sent up. Edward was in London, and Agatha, too, remained in her room. Molly had had a quarrel with Bertie after the fair. Even her merry spirits seemed to have been dampened by the rain, and her vivacious chatter had ceased. I felt trapped, cut off, and the house was completely silent, only the monotonous patter of rain making its music as it fell.
I tried to read. I curled up in the library before a yellow-white fire that failed to warm the room. I held a copy of Sir Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto in my lap, but the tale was too sinister and unnerving to read in my present state of mind. I put the book aside and looked out at the dripping gray world. Raindrops slivered down the panes of the French windows, making intricate, wet designs, and it was as though I was looking out through a glittering, moving web. I wanted to scream, to hurl something across the room and shatter the silence that was like the silence of a tomb.
I sat for a long time, staring out. I seemed to be hypnotized by the rain. It had a terrible fascination for me; it was ugly and moving, concealing the beautiful gardens, obliterating the sunshine and light. It had erased all the color and elegance from Lyon House, leaving only a chill, shrouded prison. The rain seemed symbolic to me—it was like my life, I thought. All the color, joy and vivacity had gone from it, and since I had left London that life had been obliterated by something as ugly as the rain. I wondered if the rain would ever stop falling. I wondered if the sun would ever shine again and bring back beauty and brightness. I wondered if things would ever again be normal.
I stepped over to the French windows, opened them, and stood in the doorway looking out. There were ugly brown puddles in the garden, and the terrace tiles were smeared with rivulets of brown water and black and green leaves glued to the tile. The rain blew in on me. I felt it on my cheeks and saw stains widen on my blue skirts. Damp tendrils of hair stuck to my temples. I do not know how long I stood there before I slammed the windows shut and stared at myself in the mirror.
There was a look of horror on my face. My eyes were violet-blue, dark and terrified, and grayish shadows surrounded them. My face was pale, the hollows below each cheekbone pronounced. Was I going mad, I asked myself? Was that the purpose of all this, to drive me mad? Was I even now losing touch with sanity? I brushed the damp blonde curls away from my temples and stared at the reflection in the foggy glass. I couldn’t afford to let myself get into this kind of state. I had to pull myself together. The rain would stop. Things would be as they had been before. I had to believe that.
I could not wander around this house any longer. I could not drift through the dim, empty rooms like a ghost among shadows. I had to do something to keep myself occupied. There was no one to talk to, and I could not concentrate on reading. I would have to do something else. I decided to paint. I brought my sketchbook and pencils and water colors into the library and placed them on the hearth. Then I sat down on the floor before the weakly burning fire and began to sketch.
I sketched the gardens as seen through the French windows, resting on one elbow and looking up now and then to catch a detail. I tore out the large white page and looked at it with satisfaction. It would make a fine water color, I decided. I dipped my sable-tipped brush into the cup of water and mixed the colors, losing track of time as I worked. I was vaguely aware of the crackling of the fire as it devoured the log and of the muffled ticking of the clock over the mantle.
I held the finished painting up to catch the light from the fire. I was pleased with it. It was a lovely thing of blues and grays and browns all merged together, the paper still gleaming wetly. I thought it was quite the best thing I had ever done. When it was dry I would add a few strokes of black ink to sharpen the outlines, and then I would show it to Corinne. She would be proud of it.
I moved to close the box of water colors, and as I did so I knocked the cup of water over. The murky water slithered over the hearth in rapid streams and began to seep into the carpet at the edge of the brick. It would leave stains unless I cleaned it immediately. I jumped up and hurried out of the room to find something to clean it with. The servants were all occupied with their tasks, and I did not want to bother them; preparing trays and indulging the whims of two semi-invalid women kept them busy enough.
I asked the downstairs maid where I could find some rags, and she mumbled something about the cleaning materials and hurried on. I tried to think where some might be, and I vaguely remembered the little closet under the staircase. It seemed I had seen the maid leaving a mop there. I hurried down the dim hall and found the door of the tiny room under the stairs. It was very dark here, as there were no windows about. The old brass door knob felt cold to my touch. I turned it only to find that the door was locked.
I was irritated and in a terrible hurry. In my mind I could see the blue-black water seeping into the carpet and leaving dark stains. I did not have time to hunt down the maid and ask her for the key to the door. I took a hairpin out of my hair and jammed it into the keyhole. The lock
was old and flimsy, and I was sure I could spring it in half the time it would take me to locate the key. The hairpin bent, jammed, and then I heard a click. I opened the door.
It was dark and musty in the tiny room, and the smell was overpowering. I groped along the shelf that ran along one wall and felt the cold waxy shape of candles. There was also a box of matches. I took them down and lit a candle. In the flickering yellow-orange light I could see mops and a pail and cans of furniture polish, but there were no rags. Piles of tattered old books were heaped in one corner and there was an old dressmaker’s dummy tilting on its wire platform. There were heaps of junk all about the room, and cobwebs stretched from corner to corner. I looked around quickly for rags but could find none. I was about to leave the room when I saw the suitcase.
It was an elegant thing of gleaming leather the color of oxblood. The brass fasteners gleamed too, untarnished. It was a beautiful piece of luggage that might just have come from the showcase, and it captured my attention. What was it doing here among all this junk and rubbish, I wondered? I jammed the candle in an old brass candle holder that hung on the wall and knelt down to examine the suitcase. I had completely forgotten about the spilled water and the library carpet.
The suitcase was not locked. The fasteners snapped open at a touch of the fingertips. I spread it open and examined the contents. It belonged to some woman, that much was evident, and a woman with a rather flamboyant taste in clothes. There was a black feather boa, fluffy and new, and a red satin dress adorned with jet black beads. I took out a dressing robe of yellow silk, petticoats of cream colored lace, a suit of purple linen with blue cord scallops on the skirt and jacket. There were cambric handkerchiefs and a pair of long black gloves, a brush and comb set of tortoise shell and a flat box of make-up. I examined all the things and then put them back. I closed the suitcase, mystified.
Who did it belong to, and what was it doing here? The door to the room had been locked, and surely there was no reason for this. It held all the cleaning materials, and it should have been left open so all the maids would have easy access to it. The suitcase had been hidden. I had not noticed it at first because it had been crammed in behind a stack of old magazines and some cans of lemon oil. If the candle light hadn’t shone on the gleaming leather, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Someone had hidden it. But who?
I closed the door to the closet and stood there in the hall, holding the candle, a puzzled frown on my face. The suitcase and clothes did not belong to anyone at Lyon House; that was obvious. They belonged to some woman of eccentric taste, clearly not a lady—no well-bred woman would wear such clothes. They were the kind of things one of the chorus girls would have worn, I thought, or a girl whose profession was even more dubious.
Immediately I thought of Molly’s “mysterious woman,” the woman who had come secretly to Lyon House to meet Edward by the gazebo. I had paid little attention to Molly’s prattle at the time, thinking it merely below-stairs gossip, but now I was not so sure. I tried to remember what Molly had said.
At that moment, Molly herself stepped into the hall. Her face was a bit pale, and there was a dejected look in her ordinarily bright eyes. I assumed she and Bertie were still quarreling.
“So there you are,” she said. “I’ve been lookin’ for you.”
“I wanted to find some rags—” I said.
“I can imagine why!” Molly cried. “I stepped into the library and saw that mess. The old lady would have convulsions! I cleaned it up. I don’t think there’ll be any signs.”
“Thank you, Molly. I intended to do it myself.”
“No need for you to do such things while all of us are about,” Molly said. “I was lookin’ for you, like I said. Cook wanted to know if you wanted a tray in the library. The old lady and the other one’re havin’ trays sent up to their rooms.”
“That would be fine, Molly,” I said.
“And, uh, Miss Julia—”
“Yes?”
“Would it be all right if I went out for a while tonight?”
“Bertie?” I asked.
“He wants to make up. I’m goin’ out with Teddie Rawlson to make him jealous. When he sees me with Teddie, he’ll know for sure he’s gonna have to mind his manners.”
The sparkle came back into her eyes as she contemplated this scheme of hers, and I noticed spots of color flush her cheeks. I told her I wouldn’t need her tonight, and as she started to go back to the kitchen I stopped her.
“Molly—” I began hesitantly, “do you remember telling me about a mysterious woman when I first came here?”
“Of course,” she replied. “I told you, I saw her myself. Why did you want to know, Miss Julia?”
“Just—curious,” I said. “Tell me about her again, Molly.”
Molly pursed her lips and cocked her head, evidently relishing the task. Ordinarily scolded for gossiping, she did not often have an opportunity to give herself free reign.
“Millie, my friend, first told me about her. Millie used to work here before the old lady took so sick. Millie said she saw the woman sneakin’ around in the garden, ’n she said Mr. Edward would come out to meet her and they’d walk down to the gazebo. I didn’t believe her, of course. I know Millie has such a long tongue—but then I saw her myself. She was walkin’ around the drive, and she had a suitcase, as if she meant to stay a long time—”
“A suitcase?” I interrupted.
“That’s what it looked like. It was so dark ’n all, I couldn’t say for sure.”
“Mrs. Lyon was no longer ill?”
“No. She’d popped out of bed and fired all the servants. I was one of the new batch after she recovered.”
“You—have you any idea who this woman was?”
“We all assumed it was the girl friend he had in London, come down here to see him.”
“He had a girl friend in London?”
“Oh, everyone knew that. A real flashy thing she was, too, if what they say is true.”
“You haven’t seen her again?”
“No. That was the last time—a few days before you got here.”
“She had come before, though?”
“Yeah, while the old lady was so sick. Mr. Edward had to stay here while she was so ill. He couldn’t go runnin’ off to meet some woman, so she came here instead—he probably sent for her. I wonder if that’s why he’s gone to London this time?”
I didn’t answer the question. I dismissed Molly and went back into the library. In a few minutes, another maid came in with a dinner tray and put it down on the coffee table before the sofa. I didn’t have much appetite, and I merely picked at the food. I was too busy thinking about this new development to have any desire to eat.
Edward Lyon had a girl friend in London, a “flashy thing,” and he frequently went there to see her. There was nothing so unusual about any of that, I thought. I had been around the music hall too long to have many illusions about “gentlemen.” He had visited her regularly until his aunt became ill, and then it had been impossible for him to go to London for a while, and so the woman had come here—she had been seen by one of the servant girls. Corinne made a remarkable recovery, and in a typical spurt of rage had fired all the servants, had resumed her morning rides and carried on in the old manner. Edward was no longer tied down by her illness, and yet the woman had come again, carrying a suitcase. It was the same suitcase I had discovered hidden in the cleaning closet—I was certain of that.
Why had the woman come back with a suitcase, and what had happened to her? Edward might have been able to deceive Corinne while she was on her sick bed, might have been able to make love to his mistress in comparative safety, but he would never have been able to carry it off while Corinne was up and about. That much I knew. Corinne was sharp and perceptive, and she would have known immediately. There would have been no bounds to her rage. What had the woman come for, and where was she now? Why was her suitcase hidden away in the closet?
For that matter, I thought, why had
Edward Lyon gone to London so suddenly? Did it have something to do with this mysterious woman, or did it concern the man he had been talking to at the fair? Mr. Herron, Philip Ashley had called him. Who was Mr. Herron? Who was the woman to whom the suitcase belonged? I pondered over these things, sitting there on the sofa with the dinner tray before me.
I looked up, startled. The rain had stopped, and it was the sudden cessation of noise that had startled me. There was a heavy stillness in its place, and the library seemed suddenly unbearable. The fire had died in the fireplace, a mere heap of ashes now, and the air in the closed room was stuffy. I stepped over to the French windows and drew them open to let in some of the breeze.
It was a wet, stained world I looked out on. Everything was in hues of brown and gray, mud-stained and damp, and the sky was a curious green tint, darkening. The invisible sun was going down, and long black shadows began to reach across the garden like skeletal fingers. The air had a greenish hue, borrowed from the sky. Drops of rain still dripped from the eaves, but the monotonous falling had ceased. The fresh air blew into the library, laden with the odors of damp soil and molding leaves. I left the French windows open and went back to the sofa.
I had not realized how tired I was. I sat back on the cushions, my mind still pondering over this new mystery, and my eyelids grew heavy. I do not know how long I slept, for when I awoke the room was in darkness. A single ray of moonlight poured in through the opened windows. It wavered with milky radiance, the motes dancing and stirring, as though they had just been disturbed.
I woke up all at once, abruptly, sharply alert. I felt a chill all over my body. The room was icy cold, but there was another reason for the chill. I had the acute sensation that someone had just passed through the room, moving stealthily, and I stared at the beam of moonlight where the motes still stirred violently. I tried to tell myself that I had just had a nightmare, but I knew that was not so. The sensation was real. It was as though the air I breathed had just been shared with someone else.
The Lady of Lyon House Page 17
